The Ones Who Stay and The Ones Who Leave
by bulmablue-eyes
Summary: Sherlock asks John and Mycroft to go with him to his favourite place from his childhood.  Major Character Death, euthanasia


The Ones Who Stay and The Ones Who Leave

Mycroft stared at his brother, taking in his pale, almost translucent skin and his sad, tired eyes. Sherlock was standing in the gardens of Mycroft's Sussex residence, his hand resting against the bark of an old red oak tree at the far side of the garden.

"I got your message." Mycroft said coolly, breaking the silence. "You want to go camping.

"Yes." Sherlock responded, his voice breathy and hoarse. "The bay we used to visit when we were children."

Mycroft sighed remembering nights spent huddled around the camp fire, Mummy complaining that camping was so undignified, Father insisting that it was character building, Mycroft holding the small form of his brother in his arms as they all watched the stars together. "Barafundle Bay." He whispered, watching for any kind of reaction from the younger man. "Why?"

"You know why, Mycroft!" Sherlock snapped, turning and raising his eyes at last to glare at his older brother. "You don't need me to tell you." He stumbled slightly as he turned back towards the tree, and cried out in pain when he caught his arm against the rough trunk to prevent his fall. "Where is it?" He snarled, rifling frantically through his pockets. "Have you seen – "

Mycroft held the brown glass bottle out to Sherlock. "It fell into the grass." He said, watching as his brother desperately twisted the lid off and drank from the bottle.

"Have you told John?" He asked once Sherlock had resealed the bottle and placed it in his coat pocket.

"He knows we're going." Sherlock said with a sigh. "He doesn't know why. I want him to at least have this. I'll tell him when we arrive. Then he'll always remember the journey without the burden of knowing."

Mycroft nodded.

"Will you do it?" Sherlock asked, his eyes wide, desperate, and so full of pain.

Mycroft hesitated, staring at his brother. His beautiful, wonderful, incredible little brother, reduced to screaming in agony through the day and night, unable to walk unaided, terrified more than anything of losing his mind and himself because of the evil of cancer.

"Yes." Mycroft said, his voice thick. "Yes, I'll do it."

_follow you down to the red oak tree  
>as the air moves thick through the hollow reeds<br>i will wait for you there until someone comes  
>to carry me, carry me down<em>

The evening before they left for Barafundle Bay, John, Mycroft and Sherlock stood in the garden, and John held Sherlock's hand steady as he was the last of the three to carve his name into the red oak tree.

"I want you to have somewhere you can go." Sherlock had said, when he asked them to do this. "To remember me."

It would be the perfect place to remember him, Mycroft realised as he watched Sherlock and John stand back to admire the eight letters carved into the bark above John and Mycroft's own names in Sherlock's now weak, shaky hand. The early evening sun was streaming through the leaves, filling the area with a golden, almost magical glow, and Mycroft could imagine himself sitting here, one day in the future, and feeling as though his brother was with him.

The next morning, Mycroft drank his coffee as he watched John help Sherlock with his breakfast. John was helping to keep Sherlock's hand steady as he spooned porridge into his mouth – he had complained a few weeks earlier that solid food was painful to eat – and gently stroking a hand through his hair with a small, warm smile on his face.

"Right then." Mycroft said when Sherlock had eaten as much as he could. "Are we ready to go?"

"Almost." Sherlock said, grabbing his cane and pulling himself to his feet. "Bathroom."

Mycroft watched as Sherlock and John walked together into the bathroom. John was still there, by Sherlock's side, like he always had been, helping him, caring for him, keeping him alive. Not for the first time, he found himself wondering whether maybe they were being cruel, keeping the doctor in the dark like this. Then, as the couple came slowly out of the bathroom, John chatting happily about how nice it would be for them to have a day away, he realised that, no, it was kinder this way. Let him have one last day.

The journey itself was slow and careful, and the first time they drove over a bump in the road, Sherlock screamed in agony when he was bumped against the car door.

"It's okay!" John cried, rooting around in his bag of medication while Mycroft hurriedly swerved to pull over by the side of the road. "I'll get your morphine! It's going to be fine."

Mycroft jumped out of the car and, ignoring the angry driver of the car behind, who, having nearly crashed into the back of them, was now walking towards him, shouting angrily.

"Oi!" The driver shouted while Mycroft gently poured morphine into Sherlock's mouth. "I'm talking to you!"

"Oh sod off, you imbecile." Sherlock mumbled through gritted teeth when Mycroft stood to get a pair of gloves from the bag in the boot – Sherlock's hands were freezing.

"You what?" Was the man's reply, turning to glare and stepping towards Sherlock. "You pissed or something?"

He grabbed Sherlock's arm in his meaty fist, and Sherlock let out an agonised shriek of pain, screaming as his tried to pull away from the hand that was setting his cancer-ridden nerves on fire.

"No!" Mycroft yelled, running forward and dragging the larger man away from his brother. "Not him! He's got cancer!"

There was silence as the man stared at Mycroft for a second, his fist frozen in midair, ready to punch, before his gaze moved to take in Sherlock's harsh breathing and sweaty, tear-stained face.

"We had to pull over." John said, forcing himself to stay calm as he put the lid back on the morphine. "He was in pain."

"Just get the hell out of my sight." The driver snarled, turning on his heel and walking back towards his car with a mumbled "Shouldn't be out if he's that bloody sick."

_see i have not i have not grown cold  
>i have stole from men who have stole from those<br>with their arms so thin and their skin so old  
>but you are young, you are young, you are young<em>

It took them eight hours to reach the hills overlooking Barafundle Bay, and, by that time, Sherlock was exhausted. While he caught his breath, they stood for a moment, Sherlock leaning on John, and just stared down onto the beach.

"Shall we?" Mycroft asked, his face dark as he stared down at their destination, before he turned and started walking down the hill.

"Are you bloody kidding me?" John demanded. "You're just going to walk down there like that?"

"Yes." Mycroft said, staring curiously at John. "Problem, Doctor Watson?"

"Yes there's a problem!" John shouted. "There are bags to carry down there! And someone has to carry Sherlock! This may come as a shock, considering you've actually done nothing _yourself _to help care for him, but he can't walk on this kind of terrain!"

"I beg your pardon?" Mycroft said dangerously, stepping closer to John.

"Oh, you've given money." John scoffed. "But you've never done anything to help with the day to day facts of living with his illness. _You carry him._"

Mycroft froze, staring at Sherlock.

"He's right, Mycroft." Sherlock said, his eyes narrowing as he peered at his brother, his still brilliant mind rushing towards a conclusion. "You hardly ever touch me. You can barely even bring yourself to look at me. What's the problem?"

"Alright then." Mycroft snapped, his normally ice-cool demeanour snapping. "If you want me to admit it? I'm scared. I'm bloody terrified of your illness and what it's doing to you. You were brilliant, Sherlock, absolutely brilliant. And this has destroyed you. I hate it."

Sherlock stared, his eyes wide.

"Doctor Watson." Mycroft said, not breaking eye contact with Sherlock. "You bring the bags."

They walked slowly down the hill towards the beach, until, after an hour, they came to a halt by the edge of the sand. Sherlock was held in Mycroft's arms, clutched against his chest, but he tiredly raised his head from his brother's shoulder to survey the scene.

The beach was completely deserted, the only sounds the gentle brush of the wind and the waves cracking upon the shore.

"We made it." Sherlock mumbled with a small smile, before letting his head drop once again onto Mycroft's shoulder.

Sherlock sat next to the newly built campfire while Mycroft and John set to work putting up the tent. He smiled as he watched the sun set over the sea, the flames warming his face and the blanket John had lovingly wrapped around him warming his body. He carefully sneaked a cigarette out of his coat pocket and through the folds of the blanket, sticking the tip into the edge of the flames to light it.

"You're smoking? Are you kidding me?" John shouted over incredulously. Mycroft merely glanced at him with mild disapproval and a slight purse of his lips before resuming his work.

"Now really, John." Sherlock responded with a smirk, taking a drag from the cigarette. "It's hardly going to make me sicker."

Once the tent was erected, the three of them sat together next to the fire, Sherlock glancing repeatedly at John.

"John." He said softly after a moment, causing Mycroft to tense noticeably beside him. "I should imagine you're wondering why I wanted to come here."

"Well..." John replied after a moment. "Yes, I suppose."

Sherlock smiled grimly. "John, I'm in pain constantly." He explained. "Every day, I wake up in agony, spend the day in slightly less agony because of nothing but drugs, and then go to sleep, ready to repeat the process the next day. But there are still moments I can enjoy. I enjoy walking through the gardens in Sussex, solving detective shows before you even though I'm high on opiates. I even enjoy it when you try to make it into a joke when you bathe me, just so that I don't feel ashamed."

Sherlock hesitated, taking a deep breath. "I wanted to come to the place where I experienced the best memories of my childhood, because I don't want to get worse until there's nothing left but pain. I want to die with my mind still intact, with my memories still sharp so that I can remember our walks and our shows and our baths right up until my heart stops. I want the last moments of my life to be spent remembering that, not just enduring constant agony and nothing else."

John stared, his eyes filled with tears, a horrible thought entering his head.

"So," Sherlock continued. "Tomorrow morning, I want to go for a swim in the sea, and I want you to leave me there."

"No." John cried, jumping to his feet. "I can't do that!"

"Please, John." Sherlock said, looking up at his friend with tired eyes. "I need you to let me do this."

"What the hell is this, Sherlock?" John shouted angrily. "You never just give up!"

"But don't you get it?" Sherlock asked. "This isn't giving up! This is _winning_! This disease wants to destroy me slowly and painfully. I'd be beating it! I'd be free to die when I choose, how I choose, where I choose, with the people I choose! I _want _to die here! This is the place I was happiest as a child, and I would be with the person who made me happiest as an adult."

"Sherlock." John begged, dropping to his knees beside his friend and pulling him into his arms, sobbing. "Please don't make me do this."

"John, please." Sherlock whispered, kissing John's hair lightly. "Let me go."

_then somebody laughs like it's all just for hell  
>as though we could not be saved from the depth of the well<br>but the cloth that i make is a cloth you can sell  
>to pay for the gossamer seed<em>

The next day dawned bright and clear, and, at around 9am, Sherlock walked, with Mycroft on one side and John on the other, towards the sea. Together, they walked into the water, the icy waves splashing around their ankles, soaking the bottom of their trousers. When they reached the point where the water was touching the middle of Sherlock's calves, the detective stopped.

"John." He said, turning to the doctor. "It's just Mycroft and me from now on."

"What?" John asked. "Why? Sherlock, I want to be with you!"

"You are with me, John." Sherlock said, taking John's hands in his own. "You will _always _be with me. But you can't do this."

"Why not?" John demanded, a single tear leaking from his eyes.

"Because you cared for me, John." Sherlock explained. "You nursed me, and cared for me, and kept me as healthy and as comfortable as you could. You took me from being just a lonely, hated former drug addict and made me feel happy and so _alive_, and then you made sure that the last months of my life were happy ones. You gave me _life_, John. That's what you gave me. You shouldn't have a hand in my death."

John nodded, blinking the tears away from his eyes. "I love you, Sherlock." He whispered, stepping forward to pull his friend into a close hug. "Always have, always will. You made me feel alive too."

Sherlock clutched John tighter to him for a moment, before stepping away with a whispered, barely there "I love you too".

So, John stood knee-deep in the water, watching as Mycroft and Sherlock walked further and further out to sea. Eventually, the water became too deep, and Mycroft had to help Sherlock swim out until the water was deep enough.

Mycroft swam backwards, Sherlock clutched against his chest like when they were children in front of the campfire. Finally, when they had swam about a hundred and fifty metres away from John, and the beach, they stopped. Sherlock turned in the water, facing Mycroft and the beach, John visible just over his brother's shoulder.

"Thank you, Mycroft." He said, resting his hands on Mycroft's shoulders.

"I always loved you, Sherlock." Mycroft told him with a hoarse voice. "And I told you that I would always protect you. Well this is me. Protecting you. Now go, little brother. Be free."

Together, they plunged under the water, letting the momentum take them as deep as possible. They looked at each other as they treaded water to keep themselves submerged, Sherlock's white shirt billowing through the fatal air they were floating in. Mycroft stared into his brother's pale blue eyes, watched as he ran out of energy to fight his body's instinct to breathe in.

Sherlock's body jolted as the first, painful breath of icy water filled his lungs. His hands clutched and grappled with the front of his brother's suit, whether to hold himself under or lift himself out, Mycroft didn't know. They stared into each other's eyes as Sherlock's became slowly less panicked and more calm. Mycroft watched as a stream of bubbles rose from his brother's mouth, until, suddenly, the bubbles stopped, and Sherlock fell still.

Mycroft kicked up, gulping in air the second his head broke through the surface of the water. He floated for a moment, staring down into the spot where he knew his brother was still, before he took a great breath of air, and swam back down.

Mycroft walked slowly back towards the beach and John, the water on his face doing little to disguise his tears, Sherlock's body held like a sleeping child in his arms, still warm despite the chill of the sea. Sherlock's head hung loosely back, his pale face turned towards the sun. In death, his features had relaxed, and a small smile was gracing his face.

As Mycroft gently lowered his brother's body onto the warm sand next to a sobbing John, Mycroft gently laid a hand on the doctor's shoulder. Together, they looked down into Sherlock's face. There was no more pain, no more fear. Sherlock was at peace.

_names get carved in the red oak tree  
>of the ones who stay and the ones who leave<br>i will wait for you there with these cindered bones  
>so follow me follow me down<br>follow me follow me down  
>follow me follow me down<br>follow me follow me down_


End file.
